A few more months later and it’s Friday night, which means every Fella worth his salt and pepper’s taking his Gal out on the town.

Cream pies are cleaned off faces, wascally wabbits are left in their burrows, dropped safes are unlocked from the inside, and every Fella mosies his way past ads for lingerie, cigarettes, escorts, gag items and MAYOR DISCORD: ONE SWELL FELLA! posters to picks himself up plenty of flowers and chocolates.

Industry doesn’t really exist in Equestria anymore, except as settings for the constant shenanigans Fellas are finding themselves in, and neither they or Gals are really paid, only running out of money when it makes for a good plot twist, so every joint up and down the social spectrum is open to every Gal and Fella who wants to attend.

Ballrooms, restaurants, music halls, bars, casinos and of course theatres all open their doors, welcoming wave after wave of lovey dovey and unquestionably horny Gals and Fellas, opera gloved arm in suited arm, to have themselves a grand old time. Romance! Comedy! Action! Sex, and lots of it!

Right now the sun is setting and the moon rising, looking almost like it’s buoyed along by waves of chimney hearts. Celestia and Luna don’t need to do it anymore, the mayor can do it whenever he wants, which is a real load off, especially since both sisters now have a nigh-insatiable craving for cock, pussy and nicotine, not necessarily in that order.

So once the sun starts descending, Celestia, no longer a Princess, does the same, stepping off her plinth through some clever perspective trick. She babbles a little with Luna, looking stunning in a shimmering dress of Magellanic clouds and stars, passes her props to her sister, then flicks her cigarette holder out of her garter belt and lights up, already leaving a trail of smoke to trace her sauntering off.

Luna coos to herself a little before using the same perspective trick, simply placing one of her lovely white fuck-me-boots on the plinth and grown to statue size by the time both heels are firmly planted. She raises her feather duster high, clutches her Karma Sutra, and stares out at nothing, her face a pouty kind of blank.

The sister’s roles have not only been reduced but reversed: since Celestia stands as a proud embodiment of Gal-ification all day, Luna gets to cat about town and get the living daylights fucked out of her, every Gal and Fella’s lil’ ray of sunshine.

***

And so ironically, now that her sister is showing every Gal what they could be if they just give into the song worming its way into their very DNA and embrace perpetual arousal, Celestia is free to continue her new reign as Equestria’s darkest nightlife sensation. Legends of her after dark adventures spread, even in the mumbo jumbo language of Gals and Fellas.

“YOOOOOOWIEEE, WHATTA SMOKIN’ PIECE OF BRISKET, MMM-MMM, BOY!”

Ah, a mating call! Celestia stops clicking her way down this particular sidewalk to turn and see what fine specimen of Fella-hood complimented her so, and what size she’s made his manhood already.

She takes a drag partly to make her breast heave a little, feeling that rush building inside her as the three firefighter Fellas she’s scrutinizing pelt her with a barrage of “HAMMINA-HAMMINA-HAMMINA!”s. Got three nice lookin’ Gals with ’em too, all cooing and fluttering their lashes at her, eager to invite her. Celestia takes a last puff, drops her used up cig and grinds it under heel in order to show off her legs before strutting towards the group.

“Rubba-dub-dub, hmmm, hey-sure-why-not, oooh, blah-blah-party-hearty,~” she babbles, spreading her wings to embrace all six and escort them inside their firehouse, the Gal on her right giggling and honking her right breast while her Fella on Celestia’s left, his red helmet wagging up and down like his eyebrows, pokes and prods at her ass.

As Celestia inserts a fresh cigarette into her holder, one Fella coughs pointedly and points to a big No Smoking sign.

Celestia looks at it, then bats her lashes at him and struts closer. She uses her horn to light her cig, a process that for some reason involves looking up so suddenly she swings her jugs into the Fella’s face, then sucks on it so intensely his foot starts thumping like a rabbit’s.

She then grabs the back of his head with her free hand and mashes their faces together, smoke blasting out the Fella’s ears as his hat spins on his head, Celestia’s lips against his so hard his entire torso swings up, almost balancing on his hard on before his legs swing back to the floor.

“Mmmm, wadda-wadda, whaddaya-say-Handsome, what’s-the-big-deal, how-’bout-it?~” Celestia asks coyly.

“Blah-blah-blah,Hubba-hubba!” the Fella concurs and produces an inkbrush that wasn’t under his hat when it was spinning. A few quick strokes and the sign now reads No Smoking? What Are Ya, Crazy, Lookit These Gals, Brother--They’re Sizzlin’!!!

Celestia giggles as the oh-so amenable Fella scoops her up in his arms, despite the fact he shouldn’t be able to, cooing “Ahhh, ooh, mmm, whatta-hunk, yeah-baby, ya-hoo!~” as he hotfoots it up the spiral staircase, the other two hooting Fellas and all three giggling Gals in hot pursuit.

Soon the windows of the firehouse are lit red from all those hearts shooting out its chimneys and air vents, which cast enormous black silhouettes. Celestia mounts a Fella, thrusting down on him, then, ignoring the distance implied by two windows between them, somehow reaches her arms into the last window at the end of the row to grab a Gal from the neighbouring gangbang and swing her into Celestia’s face, which bobs violently into the lucky, clinging Gal’s crotch without skipping a single beat of grinding on her current Fella.

Eventually the hearts streaming from the firehouses exits start to catch fire as Celestia, who’s had all six and has been back for seconds and thirds with no sign of stopping, fucks faster and faster.

A bright red flash envelops the windows! The whole upper floor instantly turns black, crumbling to cinders and leaving only outlines…as well as the blatant sight of Celestia wearing nothing but her gloves and suspenders, still astride the Fella on the bed beneath her.

They drop into the lower floor, which experiences the same flash fire, as do all the ones after it until the lower floor crumbles to leave only the two beds with the other Gals and Fellas looking around making “Wha’-happen’?~” babble, Celestia professionally absorbing her ecstatic Fella’s load, a fire engine, and the altered Smoking/ Sizzlin’!!! sign.

Casually, still mounted on the Fella, Celestia holds up a gloved hand without looking. An ashtray with her cigarette holder in it drops into her hand. Celestia dismounts the Fella, kisses him on the forehead, then digs into a nearby pile of ash to extract her dress. With a twirl that reduces her to a green-blue-pink whirlwind she’s back in it as if nothing happened. She snaps her fingers, and her stovepipe hat leaps off the fire engine’s ladder, scampers across the floor and springs back onto her head.

“Hmmm,” Celestia muses, using a pile of cinders to relight her cigarette and striding off towards a nearby casino, “fo-fum, who’s-a-Gal-gotta-fuck-to-get-a-glass’a-water-round-here, I-asks-ya, whatta-world.~”

Stage curtains close over reality, and a title card appear to rapturous applauses and catcalls:

The well-deserved applause are coming from a packed cinema, one of many in Friday night Midtown. It doesn’t really matter what it’s the Midtown of, everything except the cutesy suburbs is a toony kinda cosmopolitan city, and both locales sprout at random in a patchwork fashion as Discord’s empire expands. Celestia, known affectionately as the Sunshine Slut to aficionados, is just one of Discord’s beloved frenemies whose escapades are shown on screens across the growing cityscape, amusing and arousing every Gal and Fella who watches.

No, there’s no camera crew, not that any Fellas would mind havin’ the privilege of followin’ those fine Gals around, and nopony (although many new creatures have since become Gals and Fellas) would bother to ask how their former heroes and villains antics wind up on their screens. Ya may as well ask how all them faces turn up on daises, or how come sometimes a bullet goes through ya and sometimes it stretches ya like a rubber band before ya fling it back, or how come wabbits look so good in dresses. Just one-a’-them-things, Mac.

Celestia’s shorts (as in theatrical shorts, like all Gals she don’t bother with underwear) are some of the most popular, alongside her sister Lucky ‘n’ Lucious Luna, Dazzlin’ Dashie, and the Creamy, Dreamy Pinkie Pie, to name but a few. Just about everypony Discord’s ever known, good or bad, gets their turn in the spotlight. He’s just that kind of magnanimous overlord! The songs that serve as the intros and outros for these movies are, of course, various remixes of the song that slowly but surely turns everyone who hears it into a Gal or Fella.

As Gals and Fellas snuggle in the rows, the screen flickers and changes to a card asking them to all rise for the national anthem. In perfect cascading dominoes fashion, every Fella’s cock springs to four times its size and every Gal’s nipples poke forward through their dress fabric. To a mix of Hail to the Chief and Discord’s song, Fluttershy walks into shot, her gold orange dress shimmering regally as she slinks up to a microphone. She takes a last drag from her holder and lets it out in a smooth stream of hearts as she takes the mic with her other hands.

“Ooooooh,” she croons, licking her chops, “mmmm, blah-blah-blah, my-fellow-Gals-an’-Fellas, ding-dong, mamma-jamma, gotta-rrrrreally-big-show-for-ya-tonight, rrrrreally-big, mmmm, yeah, jazz-baby, outta-sight.~”

She clears her throat and proceeds to croon a sultry version of the song. She’s the perfect one to do this: she was the first Gal, infected by Discord himself right before he threw a little party for a seemingly random bunch of ponies. He had the inspired idea to remake her, and the world, in this image after watching certain movies with her and since she was probably doomed to be too shy to ever ask him to take their friendship to another level, and since he was tired of having to play by Celestia’s rules, and giving Fluttershy a confidence boost couldn’t possibly be construed as a bad thing, and no, seriously, the old Equestria was getting so damn boring to him…well, you get the idea.

So Fluttershy, with the application of certain potions, magical music spells and Discord getting bored and just pressing his talon to her forehead, became the first Gal, a living toon from Discord’s wildest fantasies, his viral carrier and, of course, his beautiful bride. Oh, everybody knows the mayor has his way with that purple secretary of his but they know who it is he happily goes home to in their city hall-fortress-temple-cottage thingy.

Every single Gal and Fella watching her feels their brains sizzle with something almost better than sex and nicotine, her words lapping at their minds like waves, the inky magic that composes their very being now, a re-enforcing of what the virus that’s rewritten their entire existence is for.

Infect. Fuck. Smoke. Obey. Infect. Fuck. Smoke. Obey. Infect. Fuck. Smoke. Obey.

Fluttershy finishes singing her song, the audience once again breaking into cheers and catcalls. She delivers grateful, cleavage flashing bows, even though logic dictates she should be a pre-recording and unable to hear them.

“Woooo,” she coos, winking, “aww, mmm, wow, too-kind, too-kind, hmmm, an’-remember, like-my-hubby-sez: Ooh-ee-ooh-ah-ah-ting-tang-walla-walla-bing-bang, an-ekki-ekki-ekkiekki-ptang-zoom-boing-z'nourrwringmm.~”

A few Fellas sniffle, some even shed patriotic tears. Profound words, words to live by!

“Yabba-dabba, blah-blah, rubba-dubba, g’night-an’-good-fuck,~” Fluttershy coos, winking at her infected subjects as the screen fades to black, leaving only the glow of her cigarette as she takes a rewarding drag.

A final round of applause for her and then the screen is alight again, blaring joyful trumpet versions of the song as a newsreel starts up. A babbling Fella bids them a good evening and a “Hammina-hammina-hammina!” to all Gals watching. In the babbling nonsense language of the new world, he begins to guide his fellow infected through it, not that they need to understand him. They understand the information on a primal level and what their appropriate response is.

First up, the ongoing war with the uninfected outside world. Well, it’s not much of a war, since nothing can stop this swell virus of theirs, but there’s tanks and what not. Sure, some Gals and Fellas have been captured but that’s not really a big deal since all a Gal has to do is whistle her song and the enemy is eventually more than happy to let her out…or invite themselves in and have themselves a little orgy, same difference.

The audience laughs and puffs smoke appreciatively at footage of an enemy soldier trying to corner a Gal by the name of Apple Jewel. The lady screams and pulls a frying pan out of her cleavage, whacking the soldier in the face. When the pan’s removed he has the face of a Fella and now Jewel’s screams are replaced by coos and giggles as she runs in a teasing circle, pursued by the “Hyuck-hyuck-hyuck!”ing new soldier in this Fella’s army.

The enemy’s weapons are likewise turned against them, tanks turned into fire engines spraying former allies with showers of musical notes, turning battle fields into swinging shindigs and picnics, with lotsa new Gals and Fellas ready to enjoy them. Hell, even former General Dragon Lord Ember’s getting in on the fun, and whatta swell Gal she is. Check out how she sucks smoke from that cigarette in the holder that used to be her staff, Fellas. Play your cards right and that could be you on the other end of those lips someday!

And in lighter news, the music biz is doing its part as well. Those music sensations the Darling Dazzlings and the Filly Fatales are hosting a swell little charity concert to send their singing voices through the airwaves and into enemy radios around the world. Footage of them crooning in perfect harmony, their cleavage squished together from how close they are, cuts to a tracking shot of their musical notes, wriggling like microbes as they strike a satellite, which wobbles until it sprouts into a rubbery, toony version of itself and begins beaming even more streams of viral notes down onto the planet below.

Yes, it sure is good to be a Gal or a Fella! Soon there won’t be anything else to be…

But now, a word from our sponsor! Are you a Fella without a Gal? Or vice versa? Too much versa, not enough vice? Then boy does Rainbow Dash (“Blah-blah-blah, hmm, oooh, call-me-Dashie, sweetie, bing-bang, mmm!~”) of Wonderthots and Elements of Sensuality fame have the place for you!

***

See, when Rainbow Dash caught the babeifying bug from Fluttershy her cloud house got upgraded just like she did, the perfect place for the perfect new her. Some say the clouds it’s made out of are actually smoke from her own custom line of cigarettes, others that it’s, ah, leftovers from how many Fellas she’s taken up there.

Whatever the case, the house is now several times bigger and, of course, even larger on the inside because what’s a lil’ warped time ‘n’ space between friends? You could call it a hotel given how many floors and rooms it has (“As-many-as-ya-need-honey, ooooh, yeah!~”) but Dashie has absolutely no shame acknowledging it as a brothel. It’s named after its owner and her role: Madam Dashie’s.

The Element of Loyalty sees it as her civic duty to help all those unattached Fellas and Gals get together, even if it’s only for a night.

Right now, Dashie is tapping her boot heel irritably against her backstage boards, “Hurumph!~”ing at being behind schedule. They’ve got a full ballroom out there and where’s her band? Probably fucking each other all the way to the moon as far as she knows!

A door springs open and, moving identically, in sway her band. Once, they were the 18-year-old Cutie Mark Crusaders. Now, as far as they and the rest of the new world are concerned, they’ve always been the Filly Fatales, the hottest up and coming jazz band on the scene, their perfectly harmonized voices spreading the song as far as they can to the music of their three Fellas. In this order: Apple Bloom and Rumble on piano, Sweetie Belle and Button Mash on saxophone, and Scootlaoo and Pipsqueak, who’s hulking frame makes it clear he ain’t no pipsqueak no more, on drums.

The Fatales clicking heels come to a stop as they register how grumpy their patron is, blowing two intense streams out her nostrils like a bull. They come to a stop, “Eeep!~”ing as their shapely backsides collide one after the other, and again as their Fellas walking into all of them, a hot, young Newton’s cradle.

“Wakka-wakka-see--” Apple Bloom begins, but Dash takes such an intense drag on her cig that it glows hellfire orange all the way down to the filter and she wisely clams up.

Dash shifts her holder back and forth in her lips for a beat as her band, in perfect sync, looks down and scuffs the floor, their ears drooping. Then she sighs and smiles, plucking her holder from her mouth with a luscious pop and sashays over to wrap all three Fatales in her wings, bestowing French kisses on each of them.

“Ahhh, what-am-I-gonna-do-witcha, oooh, hmm, break-a-leg, mmm-kay,~” the Pegasus sighs.

With a series of zipping sounds, fast enough to happen in the seconds it takes her to casually insert and light up a new cigarette, the Fatales are dresses in their shimmering black stage dresses with their shiny black boots and gloves, and the Fellas have their instruments out and ready.

“Yep-yep-yep, love-ta-see-it, don’t’cha, mmm-hmm,~” Dashie coos, looking them up and down. She gives each Gals cleavage a good luck squeeze, going “Bingo-Bango-Bongo,~” from Sweetie on the left to Scoots in the middle and AB on the right, and spins to strut through the curtain.

The crowd erupts into applause as she takes the mic, letting out a languid blast of smoke. “Blah-blah-blah, Gals-an-Fellas, yabba-dabba, hubba-dubba, mmm-hmmm, yep…The Filly Fatals!~”

The crowd goes even more wild as the curtain rises, the Fatales snapping their fingers in sync as the Fellas strike up their set then leaning into the mic to start “♫Shoo-Boo-Be-Doooop!~♫”ing their way through that glorious, eye opening, mind melting song, wiggling their cleavage at the crowds and their asses to their Fellas playing behind them.

***

Backstage again, Dash takes a proud puff as she watches, then snaps her fingers. She’s got a hot date and gratitude to show. How much gratitude? She’s ready to put up with this particular waiter to get their traditional bottle of champagne.

There’s a series of bangings, clangings, and even cat yowlings and Zephyr Breeze scurries out of the swaying kitchen doors, zigzagging his way towards Dashie.

Without even turning around, Dashie spreads a wing into his path just as he’s about to overshoot her. Zephyr’s face collides with it with a sound like solid steel, his legs shooting out in front of him and an imprint of his face sprouts in Dashie’s feathers. With an irritated flap Dash snaps him free of her wing and shakes it until his imprint is gone.

Swaying with stars and little chirping Fluttershys spinning around his head, Zephyr staggers around in front of her, shakes his head clear with a “Bw-yah-yah-wah-wah-wah” sound and grins imbecilically, almost pleadingly as he holds the bottle out to her.

Dashie takes it, checks to make sure he brought her the right fucking bottle, and makes a half surprised “Hmm!~” grunt of acknowledgement before she stuts off, heels clicking. Zephyr hops around her, babbling desperately in spite of how many stop-sign shaped smoke signals, and even one of a hand flipping him the bird, Dash makes with her cigarette to cut off each angle of his approach. Eventually Zephyr resorts to a running start turned into a knee-slide, somehow making it under her dress and between her legs to be in front of her without slamming his face into her ass or knocking her over.

Dash sighs irritably and folds her arms, waiting.

Zephyr gets down on one knee, pulling a toony box of chocolates and a bouquet of roses from somewhere. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at Dashie. Who languidly sticks the tip of her cigarette right between his eyes, burning it in place so she can use the holder to haul him to his feet.

She grips the edge of Zephyr’s pants, stretching them as open as she can and contemplating his bulging ten foot cock as it sproing!s out. Her eyes flick to Zephyr’s, her expression unchanging as if to say ‘seriously?’

Zephyr’s grin becomes a bit wobbly.

Dash sighs, babbles “Blah-blah, maybe-later, whatevah, wap-wah,~” and lets go, snapping Zephyr’s pants back so hard he vibrates like a rubber band. His joy at a potential hook up is tempered somewhat by Dash smacking the side of his head with one of her wings hard enough to send his whole body flying into the wall, or more specifically down a trash chute. Naturally it’s not normally there.

Zephyr bangs his way down it with a “YAGH-WHAH-HA-HOOOOIE!” hollering and slides out of the chute completely naked to slam into a St. Ann’s cross, the cuffs of which snap so tight around his wrist and ankles his hands and feet balloon to twice their normal size. Looking around, Zephyr’s teeth begin to chatter from the candles, chains, cages and such as he realises he’s in a dungeon (that also is not usually found at the bottom of Madam Dashie’s garbage chute) and that dear ol’ Dashie has a much different plan for their date than he does.

In the new world, it’s actually not un-common for a Gal to be a little more…hands on with a Fella, but in general Gals tend to be a submissive bunch, wowed by the calls of “WHOOOO MAMA!” and “HAMMINA-HAMMINA-HAMMINA!” from a Fella that has them naked and unresisting quicker than she can light up a fresh cig. Fellas aren’t sexist, just driven by whatever they have instead of blood now to infect or fuck, and since a Gal’s already infected, well, a Fella don’t have many other options, do he?

It's reflected in their new society too; sure, nobody really needs money (or food or oxygen or sleep or whatnot) unless The Plot calls for it, a signal deep inside their altered bodies that makes them all gravitate towards certain events, and certain roles for themselves, which is why Fellas are constantly looking for work (and getting into trouble) or wear some variation of a suit or uniform, while Gals tend to be homemakers if they aren’t in some glamours industry like modelling, singing, acting, escorting, and so on.

The most different Gals’ dresses tend to get is either a French maid getup, like the kind Pinkie morphed into, as you may recall, ever classic nurses and nuns, or the dominatrix get up Dashie intends to slip into when she remembers Zephyr’s down there.

Dashie isn’t an anomaly by any means. The fact that she doesn’t have a single Fella, Soarin’ and Thunderlane regularly battling it out with Zephyr for her aloof affections, is shared by several Gals who gravitate towards her archetype. Or rather what her archetype is now that she’s forever infected by a song-virus that makes her a sexy living cartoon.

Her three Fellas antics are often the subject of her on-screen adventures, and she’s always delighted to delight fans in the streets with her trademark heel-stomp and “Oooooh, MEN!~” catchphrase. Just because she normally takes the lead with a Fella (and definitely with most Gals she’s been with) doesn’t mean she won’t melt and roll over for the right Fella (or Gal), though. She’s a versatile one, that Dashie!

The point being that even in an alternate universe of endless sexual debauchery, with libertine levels of sexual promiscuity and 60% of the female population inclined towards submission, Zephyr Breeze is never going to get with Rainbow Dash, unless maybe she gets to beat him up a little first.

Maybe.

For now, Rainbow Dash in her fabulous new Dashie incarnation stuts down the corridors of her brothel, bottle of champagne in one hand and her holder elegantly between the fingers of the other. She’s got bigger priorities that she’s much more enthusiastic about.

After all, the boss is coming.

***

It's a little tradition that started between them when Discord was making the rounds, checking on his favourite Gals. Oh, he loves what his virus has done to every Element, of course. But while his heart will always belong to his beloved Fluttershy, ruling side by side with him forever and ever, he was especially struck by the change in Rainbow Dash, who will now be his Dashie forever and ever.

Every few weeks the mayor drops in at Madam Dashie’s and every time Madam Dashie herself is there, waiting with a bottle of champagne and a smile on those luscious lips of hers that makes it clear this cork isn’t the only thing she’s planning to pop tonight.

Fluttershy often accompanies Discord on his visits, but this week she’s having her own adventures, appearing in glorious technicolour at a cinema near you in the strange real-time of this altered reality, so his date tonight is Ember, whom he’s had the pleasure (repeatedly) of showing around his little kingdom…usually in his lap and often with his cock either in her mouth or her pussy.

“Ah, Dashie!” he croons, walking over with Ember draped around his arm. He reaches out with his free one to tenderly move Dashie’s fringe so he can see the shimmering hunger in her eyes. “No matter how many times I look forward to these nights, the sight of you always takes my breath away as if for the first time.”

“Awww, heh-heh, blah-blah-blah, yep-yep, ooooh!~” Dashie giggles, slinking into his embrace, holder transferred to her mouth so she can stroke his chest. She looks over at Ember as her hair falls back into place and her cig rises in her mouth in a way Discord’s come to know means she’s taken a shine to someone. “Ooooh, mmm-mmm-MMM, hi-ya-doll, bowwow.~”

“Hey-ya,~” Ember coos back, giving a flirtatious little wave. “Rubba-dubba, uh-huh, fine-piece-of-ass-yerself-Honey, yuh-huh-HUH.~”

“Ah, so nice to see you Gals getting on,” Discord chuckles, looping his mismatched arms around them and sliding his hands down to grip their asses. “Dashie, allow me to introduce General Dragon Lord Ember. Well, just Ember now, she’s changed careers recently and for the better, don’t you agree?”

“Ding-DONG,~” Dashie agrees. She stops batting her lashes at Ember to look up at Discord. “Hmmm, bing-bong, gabba-gabba, two-doopy-doo, Boss?~”

Discord grins, closing his eyes in bliss. Ah, Boss. Dashie’s name for him.

He loves it because he didn’t order or program her to do it, it’s just how committed to her new role she is. Just like how he didn’t make Apple Jewel call him “Big Daddy!~” in that fine Southern babble-drawl of hers, or Rarity to refer to only him as “Darrrliiing!~” , briefly resuming that posh accent. His Elements of Sensuality, always finding ways to surprise him!

“No-no, my sweet feather fucker, I prefer our time together to be private. In fact, Ember, why don’t you wander off and, oh, I don’t know…” Discord strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Ah! Start a catfight.”

“Mmm-hmm, yuh-huh,~” Ember agrees. She takes a puff from her holder, a shrunken version of her staff, and blows a string of hearts at Dashie before slinking into the crowd, swaying up to the first Gal she sees, and slapping her.

As Dashie wraps her arms around Discord’s and guides him to their special booth, he can hear yelling, babbling, and Fellas hooting. Once comfortably ensconced, with Dashie’s hand down his pants and bubbles on his tongue, he enjoys watching Ember easily take on three Gals at once, slapping one right after the other.

One jumps onto her back and starts pulling at her horns, making Ember’s breasts rapidly jiggle up and down. Discord laughs, an arm around Dashie then glances at the stage, where the Fatales and the front rows continue the show (and the assorted orgies around it) as if nothing is happening.

He squints, pulling a pair of opera glasses out his ear to examine first the cleavage then the faces of the three singers, then tosses them away to make crockery braking noises and gently taps Dashie’s right shoulder blade, a signal to make her stop for a moment. Dashie, of course, obeys. She needs to get another cig anyway.

Discord loves the babble and randomly clear innuendos of his subjects, but he also deeply, darkly enjoys giving certain of them, like his Elements and those oh-so-much-more-interesting-now sisters, their power of actual speech back, so he can enjoy hearing what they think of their new state. And also satisfy his more mundane curiosities, like now.

Snap!

“Yeah, Boss?” Dashie asks. If Discord didn’t already have wood from her skilful gloved hands, her new voice would have given him a Stallifornia redwood. He loves, loves, loves that even though she’s as high class as any Gal, on par with Rarity even, the most high class Dashie can sound is like she’s got a Brooklyn accent.

“Now that we have a moment alone, my Little Dashie~, aren't those the Cutie Mark Crusaders up there?”

“The who now?” Dashie asks, polite of course but also more preoccupied with pulling a fresh cigarette from the endless hammer-space supply between her breasts.

“Your lovely singers, dear.”

“Oh no, Boss, those’re the Filly Fatales.” Dashie flicks her lighter, holder already back in her mouth. “Good, ain't they?”

“Oh undoubtably!” Discord smirks. “Never heard of the Crusaders, eh?”

“’Fraid not, Boss. Sounds like one of them comic books.” Long cigarette drag.

All of this, especially her nonchalance, cracks Discord up. Dashie loves it when she makes him laugh like that. “I suppose it does! That one filly, the orange one with the lovely purple mane...”

“Ya wan’ ’er to join us, Boss? Anythin’ for you.~”

“Perhaps later, but isn't that your little adopted sister Scoota-something-or-other?”

“Heh, yeah, that's my Scooty,” Dashie agrees proudly. “Cleans up good, don’t she?”

“You could be twins, my dear.”

“Awww Boss, you say the sweetest things!~” She snuggles closer, and they share a kiss, Discord enjoying the feel of those tits against his chest, her booted leg entwining around his, the smell of her perfume, even her cigarette smoke.

“And you don't find it at all odd,” he asks after they come up for air, “that you have her shaking her hips on stage in front of hundreds of horny patrons?”

“Nope.” Dash casually taps her holder, sprinkling a few cinders from their balcony to waft over the crowd, zero concern. “A Gals gotta make a livin’, Boss."

“And offering to whore her out doesn't strike you as odd?”

"Nope, filly works for me, which means she works for you.” She grins, flicking her fringe out of the way so he can look her right in both eyes. “An’ your pleasure is our business!~”

He cups her chin, smirking.

“And remind me again, my little Dashie,” he whispers, “as you always do, why that is.~”

Her obedient whisper comes back soft and breathless and without hesitation. “’Cause you’re the boss, Boss.~”

Discord laughs his loudest laugh of the night and snaps his fingers, turning Dashie back into just another jabbering slut in his new world.

And to think! All this started with a song…

Author's Note

FA version here. Read for different Gal font/better speech effect.

Writing commission info here.